Frances 44

I am Frances, 44. I sell books in a small shop that smells like paper and radiator heat, and I have worn a rust-colored dress to work so often that the regulars treat it as a uniform I invented. My husband is Martin, 46. He is a copy editor with a quiet voice and extremely precise hands. Cora is 42, a friend who has kept coming to the shop for a decade, and she is not a metaphor. She is a woman we asked, clearly, to be our lover as well as our friend. We agreed on a Thursday before any night, door locked, lights half down, no wine in the plan. Any one of us can say stop. I like being talked to during sex, and I like talking back. Romance, for me, is a voice that stays kind while it says exactly what it wants. I read for a living. I like being read in return.